


Of Love and Beauty

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:31:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The victor bestows the garland crown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Love and Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> This might have been the first ASoIaF fic I ever wrote? I can't remember, but it's quite likely. Anywho, I wrote it in December 2012, so please don't judge me too harshly. I was still fresh in the fandom, and I surely missed the mark on a billion details. Posting for posterity (or to get all these wayward docs out of my drive).

The tourney at Maidenpool was a ragtag affair, full of battered knights and broken sigils. By all rights no one higher born than a castellan’s son should have entered the lists, but with the melee came the festival, and merriment had been all too scarce of late.

Loras Tyrell stalked the field, slowed and scarred and searching for a fight. A lesser Estermont swung his warhammer with wild abandon. Addam Marbrand seemed more amused than anything, but he laid about well enough when foes crossed his path.

Houses great and low had come forth to revel with the fighters. Bracken and Mallister and Smallwood; Yronwoods from Dorne; Glovers from the North. Even the Lannisters had crept from their caves to join the festivities, though Ser Jaime was crippled, rumored unable to fight, and Lord Tyrion would have been laughed out of the lists.

Only the Dragons were absent. Fitting, as they were the cause of the realm’s discontent. The wars had been ended and the Seven Kingdoms rebuilt, but no one sat easy under the new rule.

Kings and queens had been forgotten, though, for the nonce. The melee was in full force; wine flowed freely in the stands.

The talk of the boxes was a gleaming knight in golden armor, sweeping through the hoard of foes as if made for nothing else. The knight wore a favor of heavy white cloth—a strip of gown, perhaps, or even bedclothes. No one seemed to know who he was, so no one could suggest the nature of his favor.

That it was a favor could not be doubted. The length of cloth was tied expertly, and no matter how the knight swung his sword, not a drop of blood fell upon the pristine fabric.

Mystery knights were not unheard of, but they were a rarity in these wary times. Even more uncommon was an unlauded knight to fight through the first hour of a melee, face hidden or no.

The Golden Knight had done more than that. He left the wilted Knight of Flowers for other warriors and dodged Ser Addam by darting between a stray warhammer and its victim. The mystery knight fought only the fiercest warriors, parrying blade and spear and hammer and striking back with such force as to render his opponents feeble with a handful of blows.

Soon enough, the knight stood alone amidst a pile of groaning foes and shattered shields.

“Our champion!” Arianne Martell announced from her silk-draped chair on the trophy pavilion. Though many notable Houses attended the day’s revelry, Dorne was loyal to the Targaryens, and seemed unlikely to give offense.

The knight in the golden armor moved deliberately, kneeling before the pavilion and inclining his head. The Dornish princess could not conceal her curiosity, but she bit her tongue and allowed the knight to retain his helm.

“You fought bravely, good Ser knight.” She spoke loudly, a small smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. “Rise. Accept reward and renown, and choose your Queen.”

The knight’s gilded armor blazed in the sunlight. That golden head scanned the crowd once, twice, but it seemed to those watching that the knight’s visor hid unseeing eyes. He strode towards the box that housed the little Lady Ermesande, veering at the last moment to mock a bow at the men of House Lannister.

“I name Jaime Lannister the Queen of Love and Beauty,” the victor announced roughly though a dented helm.

A hush fell across the onlookers. Just as quickly they erupted into gossip, outrage and laughter mingling in the air.

The Kingslayer smirked, rose, and allowed the golden fighter to place a crown of bluestar blossoms atop his gold and silver hair. He fingered the white strip tied round the golden brassart, and suddenly the stands were awash in the supposition that it was _Ser Jaime Lannister_ ’s favor the knight bore into battle.

“My sword and soul are yours, Ser.” The knight bowed again and marched back to the pavilion.

Princess Arianne could no longer contain herself. “Good knight, remove your helm.”

“If it please my lady,” came the muffled response, “I fear it too misshapen to divest myself.”

“I will send you my attendant,” the Dornish lady promised.

The triumphant knight shook his dented helm; all of Lady Arianne’s efforts could not sway that iron will. Reluctantly she presented the prize, two hundred gold pieces and a battered shield rumored to have belonged to a famous knight of the Kingsguard.

The Dornishwoman called for wine and cakes, and in the confusion of servants delivering food and nobles milling restlessly about the open grounds, the golden knight was gone.

* * *

 

Jaime Lannister leaned against a tent pole, half-hidden in shadow. The gleam of golden armor was difficult to conceal; he knew that better than anyone. He watched her slip round a tray-laden serving man and march towards him before he could even make out the slip of cloak tied about her arm.

“That was unsubtly done,” Jaime remarked as he helped Brienne wretch the mangled iron and gold plate from her head.

Her hair spilled free, coarse and damp. He could see a purple bruise forming where the metal had twisted into her chin.

“Who should I have named in your stead?” she asked pointedly.

Jaime had to laugh. “Whoever she was, I would have been mad with envy.”

Brienne did not smile, but her eyes were pleased.

“Without cause,” she said, reaching up to trace the floral circlet resting on his golden head.

“I’d have been bitterly jealous all the same,” he said, voice soft in a way he had not quite expected.

He looked away, and was diverted again by the bit of Kingsguard cloak fastened around her arm. He traced the softness of the fabric, but left the knot as it was.

“A favor for a kiss?” he quipped, making a mummer’s show of leaning forward, but she was already moving to meet him. Brienne kissed him fiercely, victory and battle-heat still singing in her blood. Jaime accepted her eagerly, pulling her as close as the cumbersome plate would allow. He knew it was more than the sun that heated her armor to his touch.

A dark head laced with gemstones peeked through the curtain of the pavilion. Arianne Martell caught their secret in a smile. “Love,” she murmured to the golden threads, “and beauty.”

Jaime pushed aside the tent flap to usher his champion inside. The air sang with the clamor of armor falling gracelessly to the hard-packed earth.

_A lady and her knight._

**Author's Note:**

> A cheesy ball of fluff, I know. Regardless, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thanks for reading.


End file.
